Barry Allen and Eobard Thawne Walk into a Bar
by Aya-kun Rose
Summary: (or, He'll Have the Temporal Mobius Strip, on the Rocks) We all know how easy it is to get our timelines crossed. An exploration of Barry and Eobard's timey-wimey relationship.
1. Chapter 1

It's 8:45 PM on a Thursday evening in the autumn of a year of no particular consequence.

Eobard Thawne has the collar of his vegan leather jacket turned up against the nipping wind, head down as he stalks the city streets in search of some distraction. In search of anything, really, that will take his mind off of the imperious red devil who torments his every waking moment.

The Flash and the Reverse Flash. Alpha and Omega. Cause and effect. For all Eobard's resources and intellect, he never saw the cosmic joke coming. Never had he even considered that chasing the shadow of his hero would send him down the path to becoming the twisted antithesis of the man he so admired.

He's getting sick from it all, going mad, driving himself right round the bend at the thought that his destiny has already been written on his behalf. That both their destinies have already been set in stone, immutable, eternal.

He worries the ring on his finger, spinning it around and around until the skin's rubbed raw, but with the speed force healing factor he barely notices the sting. He doesn't know why he's out here anonymously wandering the streets like he is. He could jump into the suit and race away, run anywhere, but he knows good and well that there's no point in trying to outrun the Flash.

Eobard stops suddenly and turns. Two doors back there's a seedy bar, called Joe's by the look of the garish neon in the window, and really right now all he needs is a drink or two dozen. If he's quick about it, he may even manage a decent buzz; science has made great strides in the area of synthetic alcohol (along with every other food-like product developed to counterbalance dwindling natural resources, but who's counting).

The interior of Joe's is dim, stuffy, and unappealingly decorated with early 21st century kitsch. Eobard stalks towards the bar anyway, finding as he does so that the change in temperature is enough to make him uncomfortable. Speedsters do tend to run a little hot. He shrugs out of his jacket and throws it over a stool, preferring to lean dramatically against the tacky bar top.

He's casting his eyes in search of the bartender when the only other man seated at the bar speaks.

"You're late," he grumbles. To no one in particular, Eobard thinks, ignoring him. The cost of visiting a bar would be the drunks, wouldn't it.

But the man turns and looks right at him, and Eobard is forced into an inadvertent double-take, not sure what to make of this sunbeam transposed onto a human face. "I - I'm sorry?" he stumbles, "Do I know you?"

The human ray of sunshine clicks it down a merciful notch, confusion passing like clouds over his once-sunny expression. "Come on, Thawne … it's me…?"

Ah. Awkward. Everyone thinks they know a Thawne. Eobard forces a look of recognition into his features, stiffly raised eyebrows and a too-wide smile. "Right, right," he says with a self-deprecating laugh, "from the country club! You … we played tennis every other Tuesday, didn't we? It's been so long, I forget."

"Um, no." The stranger shifts back on his stool, half rising from his seat. "It's Barry. Barry Allen?"

Eobard's pretty sure he's never met a Barry Allen in his life.

"Oh, of course! Barry _Allen_! We were lab partners in Advanced - oh, the hard sciences all blur together, don't they? How've you been?"

This so-called Barry Allen shakes his head, sliding his skinny legs all the way off the stool as if he means to go. Somehow, he looks - what is that look, anyway? Disappointment?

"No, uh, I'm sorry." He smoothes both his hands over his hair, holding his arms akimbo behind his head a moment before dropping them with a bitten-back grunt. "I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be meeting someone … else. Sorry to have bothered you."

He grabs his blood-red windbreaker from the counter and is gone fast enough to give Eobard situational whiplash. Shame, really. There are all sorts of distractions available in this world, and he's never been picky; good looking guy like that, whoever he was, Eobard wouldn't have minded buying him a drink.

" _C'est la vie_ ," he says aloud, folding over the counter to help himself to whatever might be within reach. He comes back with a bottle of what appears to be a single malt whiskey substitute. "Or should I say, _bibo ergo sum_."


	2. Chapter 2

Eobard knows he's losing his mind when he starts thinking that fighting the Flash is not unlike poetry.

(His brain may belong to the sciences, but a good part of his heart is dedicated to the arts, thanks to the classical education his family name had bankrolled. Homer, Dante, Chaucer, Dickenson, Eliot, Angelou, West; he never could pick a favorite.)

Poetry, he'd learned, was the communication of ideas and truths, with special attention devoted to rhythm and style, authored with the ultimate intent to share that which is beautiful and profound.

His poetry professor would probably wilt at the thesis statement alone, but Eobard's pretty sure that he could write a full dissertation on how the indelicate application of the Flash's fist to his face, and vice versa, brings him closer to God.

The Flash is quick, actually demonically fast, usually little more than a crimson after image and ozone scented waves of excess energy that ripple through Eobard, leaving his heart in his throat and his hair standing on end. He's cocky, though, relaxed to a fault, that maddening Cheshire grin printed on Eobard's retinas long after he's gone.

Eobard is getting better at understanding the Flash's quirks, the way he thinks and the tactics he employs. He's come to savor the familiar cadence of their meetings, the meter of the blows and the composition of their strategies; the narrative expounded in each subsequent verse of their bloodletting.

But for all the strides he's made towards living up to the future-memory of what the Reverse Flash will mean (does mean, has meant) to the Flash, the notion that challenges Eobard, puzzles him, gets under his skin is the idea that sometimes the Flash is waiting for … well, to put it bluntly, like he's waiting for Eobard to catch up.

Look at him now, leering at Eobard like a spastic Red Vine (yes, they still make Red Vines in the 22nd century, only with a higher plastic content than the original recipe), leaving an obvious gap in his defenses, daring Eobard to show his teeth. It's a trap because only an idiot would try to capitalize on so transparent a feint, and they both know Eobard's no idiot.

Eobard is, however, certain that he's losing his mind. So he's not surprised when the bloodlust rises in him, like savage Enkidu or philistine Goliath, prepared to deliver this hero unto Hades himself. He strikes.

The only thing he can see is the Flash laughing in his face even as he rushes them both to the ground. They tumble together and Eobard makes sure he ends up on top, fist poised to crush the Flash's skull in. It'd be easy.

The Flash is catching his breath, winded from the merriment or the impact, Eobard can't tell for sure. But he's grinning that insufferable grin and otherwise not fearing for his life.

"Here I thought I was the insane one," Eobard drawls, his glove creaking as he flexes his fist. But he allows his curiosity to get the better of him, and the extended pause in which the Flash remains unbludgeoned is read correctly for the unasked question it is.

"Insane? You wanna hear insane?" Like it or not, there is a manic note to the Flash's voice that Eobard can't ignore. "All I could think about that entire fight was that I would totally go get a drink with you."

If Eobard were a cartoon, his eyebrows would have rocketed right off his face. As it is, they make a valiant dash for his hairline. "I'm sorry, did I wear the wrong suit today? Could you have mistaken me for someone else? For literally anyone else?"

The Flash just puts his head back against the concrete and laughs.

In the next heartbeat, Eobard's laid out flat on his back, with that demonchild smirking down at him like he's the king of the goddamn world. "When the time is right, I'll be there. You know the place."

"What the f-FLASH!" Eobard blusters, needles of electricity running through him in the wake of the Flash's abrupt retreat. His heart's left racing in his chest and he knows full well it has nothing to do with the stolen victory or the shame of yet another defeat.

Eobard lets his head fall back onto the pavement with a crack, hoping it might knock some sense back into him. For man is a giddy thing, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

He's found out that the almighty Flash is a Millennial. Eobard doesn't know whether this information makes him love or hate him more.

Eobard's great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a Millennial. Possibly a Gen-Xer. Maybe a Hipster? Or, no, was it Hippie? Modern curricula tends to paint the late 1900's in broad strokes of psychedelics, the Internet, and climate change; the various names of counter-culture through the ages are better left to the history buffs and trivia nerds.

In any case, the revelation makes Eobard think of the Flash alternately as a decrepit old man or as a floundering child. Neither interpretation has a practical use. The Flash is ageless. Much like their ongoing rivalry, he is immutable, eternal.

Speaking of relative maturity, this thing between them has left its infancy behind, and they've come to properly recognize one another as mutual arch-nemeses. This isn't child's play anymore. This is the forge in which their mettles run like quicksilver, each clash between them sending sparks flying as though from Hephaestus' hammer, guided by the Fates to see their future legends struck into unflinching steel.

Eobard's been pushing himself, working every available angle to boost his speed, and his ego swells every time he catches the Flash off guard. Suddenly the titan of his childhood doesn't seem impossibly out of reach. Every time Eobard runs, it takes longer for the Flash to catch him. Every time the Flash runs, Eobard's sure that _this time_ he'll be able to overtake him.

The fly in Eobard's gravy is the fact that although he's certainly getting faster, the Flash is just as certainly losing speed. They're getting lost in this muddled middle ground as they race towards each other through time, reaching the point where cause and effect intersect, objectivity and perspective warping like an M. C. Escher design.

They wind up in an abandoned warehouse (one of the Flash's favorite venues, Eobard's noted), squaring off in a gentleman's agreement while they each pause for breath. This Flash is different than the one Eobard's used to, slower for one, but also more subdued, less recklessly confident. His attacks are more careful and he does everything in his power to keep his defenses locked up tight. This is a Flash who is used to fighting tooth and nail to come out on top. This Flash sees the Reverse Flash as an equal, if not his better.

Eobard can see it in those dark, guarded eyes that the Flash is just as weary of all this as he is. Just as sick of the temporal contortions they're forced into, following in the footsteps of their future selves only to end up right where they started. _Here we go 'round the mulberry bush_ ….

The Flash is hanging (provocatively? Surely he doesn't realize what a sight he is.) from a wall of chain link, his arms stretched over his head with his fingers hooked into the loops. He's waiting for Eobard to dust himself off and climb out of a pile of splintered wooden pallets so they can go again. It's all very familiar, intimate even. They do this by rote.

Eobard can't help but chuckle as he gets to his feet, seeing out of the corner of his eye that the unwarranted sound has instantly put the other on edge. He can't wait to find out what he'll do to make this Flash so wary of him.

Maybe it's something like this: Eobard puts an arm behind his back, bowing graciously to his partner. Then he assumes a proper ballroom promenade position and begins a solo waltz amidst the wreckage.

Two or three bars in, he hears the tell-tale jangle of chain link as the Flash shifts, undoubtedly preparing for what he believes will be round two. Eobard turns to look at him and then executes a precise set of spot turns that would make Gene Kelly weep from envy.

The Flash flinches when Eobard whips a hand his direction. "Care to dance?"

"There is something seriously wrong with you," the Flash says.

Despite the uncivil brush off, Eobard decides not to rescind the offer. He remains stock still, arm extended, his glee increasing in exact proportion to the Flash's discomfort.

"You realize what this all is, don't you? You must. You _must_. This routine we have, it's all laid out for us, isn't it? Somebody's painted the steps on the ground and we're just," he breaks his pose, dancing a cha-cha with a lurid swing of his hips, "following along."

He offers his hand again.

The Flash scoffs, unimpressed. "I thought you were joking about the drinks, but now you want to dance? What's next, Thawne, roses?"

Eobard's brain short-circuits. When he reboots, he realizes exactly what is happening. Has happened. Will happen.

His put-on airs fizzle out as he tenses with fed-up rage. Petulantly, he lashes a boot out at a shard of wood. He watches it go clattering across the warehouse floor. The Flash watches him.

"This is _exactly_ what I'm talking about," he hisses, fist striking an invisible target as he rounds on the Flash, "We're nothing more than some double-helix self-fulfilling prophecy. None of our choices actually belong to us. Nothing we do, or think, or say actually matters. How can you _stand_ it?"

The Flash grits his teeth, moving from foot to foot in that way he does when he's got more energy than he knows what to do with. "You're wrong. You're _insane_. I decide my own future."

The words come caustic, bitter, dripping with acid. "No you _don't_."

The Flash's jaw doesn't stop working, that nervous energy still rolls from foot to foot. But he holds his ground as Eobard stalks forward, testing the limits of the boundaries between them.

Eobard can feel it in every fiber of him, that this is the point at which they converge, cause and effect colliding into one impossible reality. Before and after this moment, they'll just be ghosts chasing shadows - but for as long as this moment lasts, the two of them teeter on the bleeding edge of Now, the first moment that either of them have really experienced together for the first time.

"When I was a kid, I idolized you," he explains, scowling. "I loved the very idea of you. Until the day you showed up and spilled the beans on my future. We've been trapped in this dance ever since, and do we even know why? Look back, Flash, can you find a single good reason as to why we hate each other other than 'because we do?' Because my guess is, one day this will all start because I'll show up on younger you's doorstep to return the favor. Am I right?"

Against all odds, this overly cautious Flash has let him get closer than Eobard would have thought possible. By the time he finishes his piece, Eobard's come face to face with his nemesis, whose dark, guarded eyes burn in the dusty warehouse light. Eobard pushes the final envelope, raising his arms to loop in the chain link over the Flash's head, caging him.

After a taut, heavy moment, the Flash gives his answer by phasing a step backwards through the fencing.

Eobard falls forward into the space the Flash has vacated, but doesn't follow him through. They just look at each other through the links. The Flash and his Reverse.

"You and I," Eobard adds, quiet in the aftermath of unraveling tension, "we were never asked to choose how we feel about each other, were we?"

"You know what, I'm done. I'm done for today." The Flash shrugs, verging on helpless. "Can we maybe put a pin in this conversation and come back to it, I don't know, never?"

He's struggling not to be swayed, but it's obvious that Eobard's words have found enough footing to root. Point in fact: Eobard's not bleeding on the ground. The Flash doubts his purpose enough not to follow through on the evening's regularly scheduled beatdown. It's only a matter of time, now.

Eobard leans his head against the barrier between them, peeping through a link with one eye. "Fine. Have it your way. Go and try to live your own special snowflake life. Try to stop time from happening. When you change your mind - and let me tell you right now that you _will_ \- come find me. I'm sorry to inform you in advance that there won't be any roses. Although, for future reference, would you like roses? It's a relevant question, I promise."

The Flash is shaking his head, waiting politely for Eobard's parting rant to wind down. He passes a hand over his mouth, pulling at his narrow chin - Eobard can't be certain, but there's a good chance he's wiping that once-familiar stupid grin off his face. Then he's gone in a crackle of golden light before he can further incriminate himself.

Eobard licks his lips, tasting ozone. "So no roses."


	4. Chapter 4

Listen: Eobard Thawne has come unstuck in time.

Breaking the time barrier is different to all other milestones that have come before. Suddenly he has at his fingertips the power of infinite possibility, the freedom of temporal mobility. He could run to any point in time and perpetrate any action of his choosing; he could rip space and time apart with his bare hands should he so desire.

He could pile paradox on top of paradox until this and every other timeline shatters under its own weight.

Given the choice, he chooses not to. He rather likes the thing called "life" that a stable time-space continuum offers. As scripted and backwards as it is, his existence is preferable to the alternative.

The rest of it, he comes to accept with fire in his heart and poison on his lips, is not his to choose. Even the achievement itself is hollow, less a culmination of his studious efforts and more an in-joke authored by destiny. "Good job, Eobard. Right on time!"

What he's meant to do with this amazing gift is to sweep up like some glorified temporal janitor. There are loops to be closed, paradoxes to avert, effects to cause. Eobard Thawne, in unlocking the purest form of freedom in the multiverse, has consigned himself to a life sentence of hard labor.

First things first, then. He runs back in time to make Barry Allen's life a living hell.

The Flash he finds is raw, unpolished, clumsy and slow. He hasn't yet tapped into the deep veins of power that lie dormant inside him. He can't hurl lightning or pass through solid objects. He can barely run on water, much less through time. Eobard finds a child, and as dictated by the Natural Order, Eobard will be playing the role of the nightmare under his bed.

How odd it feels to be the Reverse of a Flash who isn't even the Flash yet.

Eobard runs rings around him. Taunting, mocking, antagonizing. Doing all the things a good rival should. Even this early, the Flash already recognizes him, is steeled against these messy battles that trend in Eobard's favor. No wonder he'll have such a chip on his shoulder when he finally learns how to fight back. Eobard's every inch the demon he remembers from his own early days in the ring, and isn't shy about capitalizing on the opportunity to give as good as he got.

He's got the Flash on the ropes, busted and battered, but not broken. Eobard finds great satisfaction in holding back, in letting the Flash know that this could all be over with _just_ a touch more pressure applied to his throat. He likes the confusion that runs rampant over Barry Allen's face when he drops him to a heap on the ground.

The Flash is choking and heaving on the pavement, but the river's beautiful this time of night so it's probably as good a time as any.

"Thursday night, say, eight, eight-thirty," he leads. "Got any plans?"

"Why," Barry Allen wheezes, climbing unsteadily to one knee. It'll be a while yet before he can get much farther. "Is that when you're free for another ass-kicking?"

Eobard ignores him. He spins slowly in place, scanning the skyline to get his bearings. Maybe it's that way, towards the south? "There's a quaint little bar just, uh, over there, somewhere. Come to think of it, there's a chance it's not there _yet_ , but it will be. The service is terrible but the booze is good. I think the name was Joe's. You know it?"

He pivots back to the Flash with his hands on his hips, his head cocked curiously. The Flash rolls back on his heels and smoothes both his hands over his cowl, holding his arms akimbo behind his head a moment before dropping them with a bitten-back grunt.

"For real? You want me to go get a drink with you?"

Eobard frowns like he's not sure that question's correct, puts a hand to his chest and points to Barry, presses a finger against his lips and lifts a thoughtful gaze into the middle distance, miming a careful recalculation of the situation.

He slides his attention back to the Flash with a wolfish smile. "Care to get a drink with me?"

The Flash wobbles as he tries to gain his feet. Eobard's scared him good, this time; he can barely stand and yet he's desperate to run along home before it's too late. "You're out of your mind."

"No," Eobard corrects him. "No, I thought that for a long time, myself. But I don't think I am."

There's a thrum of energy in the air, a preamble to the Flash's quick exit. The kid has no subtlety, no guile. There's no sign of the cocky bravado Eobard remembers he will have. Right now he reeks of adrenaline and fear. They both know he wouldn't get very far, if Eobard didn't want him to.

Eobard might be a villain, but he's not a monster. He doesn't move a muscle when the Flash takes one tentative step backwards. "Oh, did you have someplace to be? Don't let me keep you." He makes a show of waving the Flash off towards the haven of S.T.A.R. Labs, where the security of friends and family awaits.

(If Barry Allen started running now, at top speed, Eobard could still get there first with enough time to kill everyone he found and greet Barry at the door with a bloody banner reading "Nice try!")

He doesn't. He won't. He hasn't. Instead, as always, the Flash flickers out of sight, leaving Eobard alone with destiny. So it goes.


	5. Chapter 5

Celebrated genius that he is, it takes Eobard an embarrassingly long time to put all the pieces together.

He leaps from the time stream and skids to a stop on the asphalt. His skin prickles under the suit. He shouldn't be here. But now he knows there's no hard and fast rule that says he _can't_ be.

"Gideon, the time please."

The disembodied voice speaks as the yellow suit peels off him and tucks itself neatly into his ring. "The local time is 8:45 PM. Thursday. November. The year is tw-"

"Thank you, Gideon." The AI silences itself obediently. Eobard Thawne pops the collar of his well-loved vegan leather jacket and turns himself into the nipping autumn wind in search of a seedy little bar he remembers from long, long ago. "That's all I needed to know."

The final nail in the coffin, excusing the grossly insensitive turn of phrase, was striking across the news report of a certain fateful night early in the twenty-first century. April 25th, 2024. Ancient history for most, but the date was for him a familiar heartache; he'd had those morbid digits drilled into his memory ever since he first visited the Flash Museum in the fourth grade. The day his hero died.

How he could have overlooked the event and its implications since becoming the Reverse Flash remains a mystery. But now he has something to work with. He doesn't have to break time in order to get what he wanted, he just needs it to _bend_.

He's almost afraid he won't remember where to find the tacky hole-in-the-wall with its blinking neon and faded relics. He's worried he won't get there in time. He's worried that he will.

It's been such a long time since he actually felt in charge of his actions, and the weight of that responsibility threatens to crush the air from his lungs. (On the other hand, it could just be first date jitters. It's a toss up, really.)

But there it is, faithful Joe's, looking no different than it did all that time ago. No reason why it should; there's an Eobard Thawne from a previous life inside right now, lounging at the bar and looking for something to numb the pain. And the insufferable bastard has no idea that what he's looking for is sitting right there in front of him.

Now that he's Older and Wiser, Eobard's willing to risk everything to have his cake and eat it, too. He'll dance to the pied piper's tune if he has to, he'll oblige fate and close that final loop - he must, one day, strike a boy named Barry Allen so hard that the reverberations will ripple forward and backward through all of time, creating the shockwave which he rode (has ridden, will ride) to that moment in the first place.

It has happened, and so it must happen. Eobard has promised the universe that much. Tonight, though, he'll live for himself.

The door of the bar swings open, and out steps the one and only Barry Allen.

A pout like that has no business hanging on the face of a man his age, but Eobard will forgive it. The poor kid (and it's hard not to think of him as a kid, so soon off the tail end of a tussle with one) thinks he's been stood up, after all.

A flutter shamefully resembling something from the butterfly family takes up residence in his gut, and Eobard decides it's now or never. In this moment alone, he is the master of his fate.

"Barry!"

Barry's shrugging into his windbreaker, crimson just like Eobard remembers, and his head snaps around to see that it is in fact a real life Eobard Thawne calling to him from across the street. He barely looks both ways, but at least he has the good sense to jog haphazardly through traffic like a normal human.

"Thawne," he grumbles, partly upset and mostly amazed. There's a sunbeam smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. "You're late."

"Am I?" Eobard raises an eyebrow at his own cosmic joke. In every way that counts, he's right on time. "And it's Eobard. Please."

Barry laughs at the hand he's being offered, but takes it all the same. The Flash and his Reverse, standing face to face and hand in hand, spitting in eye of destiny. "Barry. Barry Allen. Obviously."

From where he stands, Eobard sees their future unfurl as a series of glorious unknowns and limitless what-ifs. The night reels wild with possibilities that thrill him to his core. All Eobard has to do is ensure Barry keeps his appointment with April 25th, 2024. Then, with nothing left to lose, he'll be free to end this where it all began.

"Come on, then, Barry Allen," he says with a chivalrous tip of his head, "I believe I promised you a drink."


End file.
